


just one single glimpse of relief

by biochemprincess



Category: Edge of Tomorrow (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biochemprincess/pseuds/biochemprincess
Summary: Rita didn't just spring into existence from out of nowhere, nothing but a fever dream of millions of minds to save their lives. She's got history. She was a person once, before.
Relationships: Hendricks/Rita Vrataski, William Cage & Rita Vrataski
Comments: 9
Kudos: 21
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	just one single glimpse of relief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corvidlesbian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidlesbian/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, corvidlesbian!
> 
> I loved writing your prompt and I hope you enjoy it. I wish you happy holidays and a good start to the next year.

_i. before._

At critical times in history there's always a divide, where the line will be drawn. When one is right in the middle of it, the line blurs, because it's only visible from a certain distance. It takes years until it'll be clear as crystal, because it's something only time can achieve. 

There is before and after. Before the Mimics, after the Mimics.

Rita didn't just spring into existence from out of nowhere, nothing but a fever dream of millions of minds to save their lives. She's got history, she's got memories of a life that wasn't blood mixed with dirt, like the first attempts of little girls being witches. 

She was a _person_ once, before. 

Before, Rita was a teacher. Before, she was somebody's daughter.

*

When Rita was a kid, her father often took her camping. He liked to go fishing and she was too restless, too curious, to be left inside a house for longer stretches of time. Four walls couldn't contain so much energy and curiosity.

Lake Pittsfield was barely a twenty minute drive away from their home, settled between lush forests, and it was their second home for a while. 

It was where her father taught her fishing and the patience required to catch them. He taught her how to set up a tent, how to make fire, how to work against the cold clawing at your fingers in the darkest of nights. 

He taught her the joy of teaching, of passing wisdom. One day people would ask her, "Why did you become a teacher?" and Rita would answer, "Because of my father." 

Neither of them knew then, staring at the water in quietude together - the future still bright, without a single fear or Mimic on the horizon -, but this is where the Angel of Verdun first took shape, where her wings took root.

Her father would never live to see it happen, neither the cause of it with a world in shambles nor the reaction it sparked within Rita, and maybe that was for the best. 

*

Rita didn't volunteer right from the start. (That's what would be told later - much later - by the big bosses at the top of the food chain. It made her story more than it was, the Hollywood version of the real events.) 

When news of an alien attack first hit, it was seen as a hoax for a while, too unbelievable to be actually true. There were memes about the meteorite. But it did not take long for it to be proven right and for jokes to die on the tip of tongues. 

Even then it seemed so far away from reality, Rita tried to ignore that there was an alien invasion happening. She had classes to teach, yoga videos to watch, friends to meet. It was far away from her, not tangible to a mere mortal. 

But as it happened with most things, times turned worse. They sent men and boys overseas and none of them came back. The dead ones' families got a letter thanking them for their sacrifice and the ones that lived had to stay in the trenches until the next attack. 

Rita didn't want to watch from the sidelines anymore. She was young, fit, smart - she was a valuable asset. So she enlisted. Her mother called her a stubborn fool to her face, but she hugged her so tightly, Rita feared her ribs would bruise. 

Rita was glad, both for the support and the scolding. She loved her mother dearly, but Rita couldn't sit on her ass and do nothing when there was another way. Her mother understood. And if Rita didn't make it home, her mother would endure. 

_ii. during._

It's everything and nothing what she expected. The days werr endless, the nights short and cold. Training taught them the basics, there wasn't any time for anything more complicated.

Rita was deployed in Verdun before she was ever really ready for it, just a foal learning to stand on its own legs. But they didn't have the luxury of time.

The Mimics were real and fucking terrifying up close. She couldn't tell them apart. They were monsters, swarming the beaches. 

The one she killed after over 24 hours of no sleep looked different from the others, but she couldn't tell if it was real or just a hallucination. It didn't matter - It died and took her with it. 

When she opened her eyes again, she lay on a shitty mattress and was about to get ready to fight another day. She opened her eyes and felt her heart beating in her chest, knowing full well that it had stopped only moments earlier. Looking down her body she saw unmarred skin, without sand under her nails and body fluids in her hair. 

Her breath caught in her throat. It didn't feel right, to be there again. She knew something was wrong. It hadn't been a nightmare. 

But there was nothing she could do about it, the feeling of wrongness and impending doom. So she got up and ready to fight once again. 

She didn't even make it an hour the second time around.

And Rita opened her eyes and felt her heart beating.

Rita opened her eyes, felt her heart beating.

Opened her eyes, her heart beating. 

*

Afterwards - after the first few dozen loops and solving a few mysteries along the way - she trained as if her life depended on it, which it quite literally did. Rita rarely let leisure sneak into her routine, even with the cheat code of resetting her life. 

Some nights she woke up in cold sweat, flashes of one or another death haunting her in her subconsciousness. Her mind was too full, filled with details of every loop she lived. Rita remembered it all and it started to become a problem as she tried to keep it straight. 

Nothing made sense anymore. By now she knew at least to keep her mouth shut. Talking to the General had sent her to the Psych ward as well as into labs worthy of Area 51. Rita felt lucky to die without consequences then, but the pain of a scalpel cutting her skin without anaesthesia stayed with her in the next loops.

For whatever reason beyond her understanding she was gifted or cursed with this ability, she wasn't entirely sure which version she preferred, so she'd use it to her advantage and kick some asses, save some lives. 

*

They called him "The King", which was both a testament to his fighting style and just blatantly funny. Nobody called him Arthur, not even Hendricks himself. His first name didn't fit him, like an oversized t-shirt. 

He was around. Their squads paired up regularly, sat at the same few tables during lunch, Rita knew his alert face and the sound of his cheery laugh, as if they weren't catching bad sleep in bunk beds. But that was it. She didn't _really_ know him, not until the loops.

It started as a coping mechanism. Hendricks was an attractive man, which was important, but even more important, he was kind. Even amidst the darkness of war he did not turn cruel for the sake of it. And he didn't care much that she was much more competent than him. 

At first the sex was nothing but stress relief. But with every loop she got to know him, she learned more about him. She sought him out again and again, until he was a fix point in every repeat of events. 

Only to herself, in the privacy of staring into the starless midnight skies above she dared to imagine a future between them, once this was over. 

His consistent deaths complicated matters.

*

Hendricks died.

Hendricks died.

Hendricks died.

_Hendricks died._

Hendricks stayed dead.

*

Shards glittered all over the sink and the floor beneath. Blood flowed down her knuckles. The cuts bit painfully, but she didn't care much. The mirror in her tiny bathroom was gone, unsalvageable. 

Rita felt violence rise inside her like a tide, eating away at the cliffs of her sanity. She wanted to hit things until her bones turned bare, wanted to feel something other than failure. She didn't want to meet her face in any reflection.

Her face was painted on any and all available surfaces. Anybody she met hailed her a hero. The Angel Of Verdun. She wanted to throw up. When her kill count had finally sunk in, she almost couldn't believe it. More than a thousand Mimics, officials told her. Rita hadn't even noticed. The hours had been as vast and endless as their enemies, she'd just gone through the motions on auto-pilot. 

The Angel of Verdun, with it's dusty wings and broken halo. 

All she had done was fuck it up. She had condemned them all to more years of endless fights by getting injured. And for what? She hadn't even been able to save the only one that mattered. 

Hendricks was just another name among the dead. 

Hendricks was dead.

He was dead and Rita didn't even have the option of leaving and fucking around for a while, before killing herself in some freak accident and starting over again. 

She'd done that in one or two reboots, just leave this clusterfuck of a war behind her and find somewhere else to be. She was a martyr, not a saint. When Rita had signed up for war, she hadn't expected this - a never-ending nightmare. 

The soul-crushing loneliness of surviving, when others didn't. She bore scars deep down inside, carved by every single death she'd experienced. 

Dying hurt. 

Dying hurt like a bitch, even when you were bracing for the impact, when you got so used to it you almost got _good_ at it, but surviving hurt so much more and Rita had never wanted to be stuck in a loop, but now that she wasn't anymore, she wanted it back. 

She wanted to turn back time again, redo it just one last time. 

She needed more time to get it right.

Rita didn't mind cheating if it ultimately served her purpose. 

But it was over, end of line.

*

There is a man and he dies. There is a man and she kills him. There is a man and they both die. He is not Hendricks. She will not remember. 

_iii. after._

The man said "It's over", first and "I was like you before Verdun," second and "We did it," last.

Rita stopped in her motions. And she wasn't the only one. Other people too seemed to be receiving the news of a victory as cheerful shouts arose from all over the halls. People clapped each other on the back or fell into tear-stained hugs.

It was over.

Inside Rita something fell apart. 

For so long she'd wielded an armour around her soul, forged pieces of impenetrable steel and assembled it to protect the last shreds of humanity left inside her. The reboots had taken and taken and taken from her, until there was no original substance left to draw from, but she'd endured. 

But now in the face of a victory her armour lost its strength. For years - decades counting every single loop she'd ever done - she'd had nothing but herself and the war. Another battle, another fight. What was left of her if there was nothing left to fight for anymore? 

How could she go back to a life as a civilian, teaching children and teenagers as if she hadn't watched so many of them die at the beaches and warzones, slaughtered by monsters sent from outer space hell, crying for their mothers as they bled to death? 

"I don't even know your name," Rita said and it wasn't exactly true. Her eyes met his, and she didn't remember him, but she should. He'd said "we", which implied a certain connection. This version of herself didn't know him, but there were others who did. 

"William Cage," he said.

"Let's get a drink," she decided on the spot.

And he followed, just like a good soldier ought to do.

*

Cage painted a picture with his words, in quiet whispers among the cheerful shouts at a bar not far from the base. It was only a little gross there, paint peeling from the walls like stickers from the wet beer bottles, but at least there was any left at all. 

If Rita hadn't been in his shoes she wouldn't believe him, she almost didn't as it was. But there was the subtle glow of insanity shining in his eyes. He wanted to be heard, wanted somebody to understand. She knew the look from staring into the mirror on multiple occasions. 

"We never fucked, did we?" Rita asked. For no discernable reason it was vital for her to know the answer to this question.

Cage to his credit didn't choke on his drink, but his eyebrows rose just a fraction. "No, we didn't. There was a kiss though." 

Now it was Rita's turn to be surprised. "You could've lied about that."

"This is the last version of ourselves that's left. Let's not start on the wrong foot, huh?" he said. 

Rita nodded, but something about him was off. His hands grabbed the bottle of beer just too tightly. Cage wasn't lying, but he was omitting. She believed him about the kiss, but there must've been more. They've got history, she could feel it. It was only logical, she'd looped so many times to win at Verdun, he must've too. They must be equals in their miserable existence. 

It was almost comforting to know, she wasn't the only one. Rita wondered if she's ever felt this specific emotion before, in one of the loops she didn't remember. She, obviously, didn't remember. But did it matter? 

This version of her, it lived and breathed. But there were thousands of versions of herself that didn't. Rita took another sip of her beer. She would consider it another day. Today they'd won. 

"You think we're gonna need therapy?" Cage asked, and there was the hint of a shit-eating smirk on his face. Rita could see why he'd get stripped of his rank for disobedience. 

"Trust me, getting out of the psych ward won't be so easy anymore when you can't kill yourself to loop," she answered. But then she nodded. "But yeah, probably." 

"Are you going back?"

"To what?" She didn't mean to reply, could've deflected, but the words tumbled out unwantedly.

"Teaching," Cage offered helpfully, but Rita's pulse picked up. 

The dissonance between the person she was, and the person Cage seemed to perceive her as, was staggering. He saw her in a light unknown to her point of view, simply because she didn't know him and he knew everything at once. He knew _her_. 

"What's your blood type?"

"What?"

"Blood type," she repeated with urgency. It didn't matter what he answered. But Rita had to get to know even the tiniest sliver of his life, a detail to fill in the blank space. She didn't like being outgunned. 

"O." Then something close to a revelation passed over his face. " _Oh_. I'm from Cranbury, New Jersey, if that helps."

"Barely." 

"I'm not Hendricks," Cage said, almost defensively. 

Rita wanted to slap him, but knew she had no right to. Nobody knew about Hendricks, which meant he'd heard his name from her lips. She'd trusted him well enough to tell him.

"No, you're not," she mumbled. " _I am_."

*

She couldn't sleep in the nights that followed.

She was without guidance now. The war had been her lighthouse and now she was a ship lost at sea with no means to find shore. It sounded illogical. She should be elated and she was, truly. 

It was all she had ever fought for, to get back to what was once upon a time. 

Rita’s mind didn’t care much for what it _should_ feel as opposed to what it did experience. 

Cage being around didn't help.

Sometimes Rita caught him looking at her, when he thought she wasn't watching. She was, her body still on high alert. She didn't know what he expected from her, who he expected her to be, but he'd be sorely disappointed she thought. 

She hated how he brought her coffee and it was just like she liked it, how anticipated her actions, nodded along when she’d barely started a sentence as if he knew how it would end. (Because he did.) 

It shouldn't matter, but it did. He had a headstart to a race she hadn’t known she was participating in. It annoyed her to no end. She couldn't help but wonder if that's how life would've been for Hendricks and her, in another universe. Her, always a full mile ahead of him. 

Rita didn't linger on the thought too long. 

At least she found an answer to Cage's question when insomnia wouldn’t grant her rest - No, she wouldn't go back home to teaching, not right away at least. Europe was in shambles and somebody had to build it up again. 

Rita had been better at destruction these past few years, but she still could nurture to a degree. It would be fine, it should be fine. 

It was over and Rita was relieved. Maybe, she could start being a person once again, instead of an icon larger than life. Maybe she could see past all the secrets and quirks Cage knew about her and find a friend in somebody with shared life experience. Because, no matter any fault she could find in the man, he was the only other living, breathing person who understood what it meant to die and come back and die again. It was over for both of them, but the memory lasted.

But she was alive, wasn't she? She had all the options in the world ahead of her now. 

Maybe she could go camping again, to clear her head.

  
  
  



End file.
